Crimson Freckles
by LydiaofNarnia
Summary: When it came down to it, it was simple; Courfeyrac did not want to die. But with the bayonet raised over his head, he was helpless.


Courfeyrac was never made to die.

Courfeyrac was made to live. He was made for his mouth to always be open in laughter, for his voice to be filled with cheer, for her face to be illuminated with joy. He was made for blood to always be running through his veins, to always be thinking, to always be charming some grisette back to his apartment.

He wasn't made to fall to the ground, his eyes wide in terror as an immense National Guardsman loomed over him, bayonet raised high. Courfeyrac cried out at the imminent death looming over him, throwing up his arms to shield himself.

He did not want to die.

The National Guardsman began to bring his bayonet down upon Courfeyrac's head, and in that moment everything seemed to be moving unnaturally slowly. Courfeyrac shut his eyes on instinct, and just barely had the time to register that that final glimpse of moonlight would be the last glimpse of light he would ever see before two consecutive gunshots rang out above the shouts of the men desperately attempting to defend the barricade, echoing in Courfeyrac's ears.

Several seconds passed and the death blow did not come. Courfeyrac opened his eyes just in time to see the guard slump over on top of him, limp and bleeding and absolutely dead. His bayonet, just moments ago poised to take another man's life, harmlessly fell to the pavement at his side.

Courfeyrac laid there a moment- it was almost as if he were unable to move. Every muscle seemed frozen; he was incapable of making a sound, of twitching a finger, of even closing his eyes. He was alive- somehow, he was still alive. He heard shouts and cries all around him, a volley of gunfire resulting in the moon he gazed up upon being momentarily obscured by smoke, and then suddenly a hushed silence. Still, he lay on the ground with the corpse of the soldier on top of him, shielding him from any stray bullets.

Finally there was the sound of hundreds of footsteps falling back, retreating from the barricade, and there was the soft buzz of relief from the side of the insurgents as they seemed to be returned to calm once more.

"Courfeyrac!" Someone exclaimed, pulling him to his feet. "Are you alright?"

Courfeyrac nodded dazedly, squeezing the man's hand in thanks. He registered something wet on his cheek, and figuring it was the rain which was just beginning to fall in a light drizzle he swiped it with the back of his hand. It came away streaked with red.

Blood spatter, he realized. From the soldier, when he was killed.

"Why, look at me," he murmured softly to the workingman who had helped him up. "Crimson freckles in the moonlight!" No matter, he decided. The rain would wash it away soon enough.

It was only then that he noticed dozens of men flocking around something near the cage of paving stones. Frowning, he squinted his eyes and was barely able to make out in the center of the group a head of dark curls-

"Marius!" He exclaimed, immediately leaping towards the throng. The crowd seemed to part for him; he barely even had to push through before he was at the core of the group, and he flung himself around Pontmercy's neck, nearly knocking him to the ground. Combeferre chuckled, and even Enjolras managed to crack a smile, though the thoughtful look in his eyes remained.

"What luck!" Combeferre exclaimed, clasping Marius' shoulder.

Bossuet clapped Marius on the back, the force nearly knocking Marius forward before Courfeyrac steadied him. "You came in opportunely," Bossuet commented, and he seemed as if he were about to say something else. However, Courfeyrac interrupted him.

"If it had not been for you," began Courfeyrac again, still pinning Marius in a sort of smother-hug, "I should have been dead!"

"If it had not been for you, I would have been gobbled!" added little Gavroche, having to raise his small voice in order to be heard over the clamor of the others.

Marius, however, was in a daze; it seemed as if he neither saw nor heard any of this. "Where is the chief?" he asked in a flat voice.

Enjolras, the chief of whom Marius was speaking, looked up suddenly, as if breaking out of a trance. "You are he!" he exclaimed, taking Marius's hand and shaking it firmly. Marius blinked, hardly seeming to register Enjolras' words. The rest of the men, however, certainly did. Courfeyrac nearly dropped Marius in his surprise.

"Enjolras," Combeferre frowned, as the three leaders removed themselves from the group still busy congratulating Marius. "Are you certain?"

"I am, Combeferre," Enjolras replied with all the assurance of a general and the solemnity of a judge. Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows, casting a glance over his shoulder at Marius, who seemed to hover over the men as they dragged the wounded onto mattresses, almost as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself.

"Why Marius?" Courfeyrac asked doubtfully. "I mean- I love the boy with all my heart and soul. However, he is _not_ the ideal man to lead a barricade-"

"He was fearless in the face of danger," Enjolras replied smoothly; it was clear he had put much though into this decision. "He was able to quickly think up a plan and put it in to action, he did not falter at the thought of his own death. As a result, he saved us all."

"He might have blown us all away," returned Combeferre.

"True," Enjolras conceded, "he may have. But tell me, Combeferre," Enjolras paused, meeting his friend's firm gaze, "are our lives more important than what we fight here for?"

The three men were silent for a moment, and Courfeyrac had time to reflect. Enjolras had condemned himself; with the death of Le Cabuc, he may as well have been killing himself. As had Combeferre, in his promise to share Enjolras' fate. The revolution was bloodless no longer; in the spilling of an innocent civilian's blood, the revolution itself was no longer innocent. Even so, Courfeyrac could not get the image of the savage bayonet out of his mind, nor the hollow feeling in his chest when he had realized that he would never see the light again.

"Even so," he said softly, feeling almost ashamed of his words, "I do not want to die."

Enjolras raised his eyes to Courfeyrac's face. "Does anyone?" His voice was quiet, filled with understanding, and Courfeyrac felt a pang of pain.

Combeferre cleared his throat at that moment. "Perhaps," he said, "we ought to arrange a roll- as to make sure that everyone is present."

Enjolras nodded, his eyes still on Courfeyrac. "Yes. of course."

He only turned away as Combeferre began to walk off, leaving Courfeyrac to his thoughts. Courfeyrac pondered Enjolras's words: "Does anyone?"

Courfeyrac supposed not. He himself did not want to die; that much was clear. The glint of the bayonet flashed through Courfeyrac's mind again, making him shudder. Neither, he knew, did Combeferre, or any of the other men on the barricade. And Enjolras himself?

Courfeyrac could not be sure, but the pensive expression on Enjolras's face throughout their conversation highly suggested to him that he did not.


End file.
